There was something romantic about Dwain’s smoking habits. Most would say his wise beard and pathetic eyes were the only reason people gave his torn cardboard sign any care. But it was all in the way he smoked that damn cig. His mouth acted the part of a royal tea pot spitting out intermittent puffs of steam into the frigid December air.
“God bless you for your care,” His beard shook like a bush on the dark Ray Bans of the charitable. They always smiled with excitement as if they were saving the world, Dwain loved that. He put the bill into his left pocket and gave his right one full of change a happy spank. The jiggle stopped short, the pocket was bulging.
The five o’clock traffic had come and gone as had his pack of cigarettes, and with pockets full Dwain stepped toward the closest gas station beard first.
“Heya Steve, I’ll take a pack of spirits along with this cheese Danish.”
Dwain emptied his change pocket with delicate hands into a mound of silver. After letting go it clanked and crumbled like metallic pebbles on a riverbed.
“You know what Dwain, I’ll hire ya, just quit your begging.”
Steve’s uneven face let out a smirk
“No thanks as usual Steve, having too much fun stealing from the rich.”
Dwain crinkled the wrapper open smudging its crème against the wrapper’s insides. Once open, he let out a sigh of relief and brought it nice and slow to his lips.
“Cheese Danish, eh? And some NAS? Next thing you know you’ll be buying the cold coffee.”
Steve’s grin wore wide and exposed an inglorious row of rot which seemed to mock Dwain’s pleasure.
“Oh keep quiet Steve. I’m just celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“You know, its Sunday.”
“So what?”
“It’s the Lord’s day.”
“And?”
“All the Christians are out.”
“What about it?”
“They’re looking to be charitable.”
“Ah, I see.”
A customer approached their conversation and shot out the minute the transaction was complete. Dwain started fidgeting through the zipo lighters on the counter he would never buy as Steve resumed his lazy conversation posture.
“Well Dwain,” Steve let out a sigh, “I’ve never thought you the religious type. So, I can’t say it surprises me.”
Dwain let out a smile of remembrance and brought his gaze back to Steve from the lighters.
“Use to be in the church. All went great until I grew up.”
“You can tell growing up paid off.”
They both chuckled
“Well I’d love to believe it, but it’s all a bunch of fairy tales; just a bunch of giants, sorcerers, and dragons. Especially the dragon. That kills me!”
“That right Dwain? Never have given it much thought. Susan talks about it some, but it’s normally after work. By then I’m just too damn tired to listen, so I just nod.”
Steve started nodding with comical drooping eyes. They both erupted in laughter.
“Whatever works for you old friend, as long as you don’t send me to hell for it.” Dwain smirked with lighthearted dignity.
He finished the last bite of cheese Danish, and began brushing his beard clean of glazed crums while Steve slammed something of little urgency into the register.
“I wouldn’t have the heart to send you there. Lord knows Susan would though.”
“I suppose she would, she seems like a dreamer.”
They savored a moment of silence before Dwain got the shakes.
“Well good friend, these spirits have been singing to me since I bought them. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Steve let off a wave as another customer approached the counter. Dwain pushed through the double doors and lit the spirit. It was getting colder and the smoke warmed his body. He drew hard and deep. He loved the foreign taste of half decent tobacco. He smoked the cig until he tasted paper and made sure to put it into the ash tray on top of the nearest trash can. From there he would complete his route before sunset. He didn’t like the dark and did his best to attempt sleep before it wore too heavy. His route consisted of places to bum the next day. He hated floating, but it was the only way to keep above water considering the amount of people he would be competing against.
“Why does everyone want to be a hobo all of the sudden?” He would say comically.
Of course, he had one advantage over the rest, he didn’t believe in fairy tales. And for that reason he would keep his mind sharp and his pockets stiff.
Dwain approached the main intersection in town, his first stop, and eyed a place to stand. He observed traffic flow and how best to position his hopeless gestures the following day. He would be there at sunrise before the rest of the hobos shook awake, he was one step ahead of the game. Next he would go downtown, near the high class shops. He knew he might have to do some tricks, but he didn’t mind. The rich needed a reason to give and for some his smoking was not enough.
On his way to the park, his final stop, he swung by the town grocery to pick up cardboard slabs for the night. The air grew colder as he walked. He progressively bundled tighter and inhaled the smoke deeper to keep warm, but even that didn’t warm him all the way. His steps were hurried now; he could feel the sweat dry the minute it surfaced under his coverings. Night was spreading and he knew it would grow colder. He wanted to achieve sleep before it became too cold to rest, leaving him alone with his thoughts for the night.
He swung around back, picked out a decent load, and made for the park through the grocery parking lot. A bunch of kids came out of the store in unison munching on a box of something unaffordable and gossiped happily toward Dwain. He had already stamped his cig out earlier, making him less of an agreeable or feared character. He was nothing without his cigarettes. He scowled at the young and continued on toward the park. He didn’t have time to meddle with adolescence, not on a night as cold as this. He was already running late.
The sun was out of sight and darkness was minutes away. Dwain knew he was tired enough to sleep and resting under the hum of park lights erected in Nancy Copperfield’s honor was becoming less of an option. He thought hard and, on a whim, ducked into a nearby alley for the night. He laid down his bed strategically with enough to cover himself for warmth. Dwain lay on his side behind the alleyway dumpster fidgeting on top of his fresh, brown mattress. The dumpster was full and he knew the garbage truck would wake him before the rest of the hobos, he would still be ahead.
Once he had made himself comfortable he arranged the other slabs into a makeshift sleeping bag. All was silent now and dark. Dwain reassured himself, ‘Who believes in dragons anyways?’ A breeze trickled through the abandoned alleyway and collapsed the cardboard at the foot of Dwain’s paper blanket. It felt as if someone had sat next to his feet. He would not dare look back. He half convinced himself that the devil himself had decided to keep him company and he began to tremble under the breeze’s continuous flow. He had always feared the devil. The thought of locking eyes with that horned serpent now sitting at the foot of his bed was enough to keep him awake till morning.
Dwain reached down into his pocket and pulled out a spirit. He needed some light, the alley was just too dark. He took a deep draw to get the embers illuminated. His hands were cold so he put them back after lighting and kept the cig in his teeth while hazing the smoke out his nose. The smoke hit the embers just right and made it look like fire. Dwain began to wheeze with laughter aloud in the lone alley.
“If only you could see me now Steve.” Dwain’s coughs became his laughter. “I’m breathing fire like a damn dragon.”
When the laughter stopped Dwain was all alone again in the dark, even the breeze had left him. He knew he couldn’t sleep, but the nicotine set well. There were no such things as dragons and of that he was sure.
